With Lights of Amethyst
by LuipaardJack
Summary: 15 drabbles dedicated to PeterxSylar.
1. Descending Upwards

**Heroes15 Challenge: Table 2/Drabble 01: Risk**

* * *

Peter was falling.

He was falling and falling, wind whipping at his face, tearing at his clothes, and he fell, fell, fell --

_There! _His hand flashed out, directing the psychic power into a strike that blew in a window five levels beneath him. His acute hearing, courtesy of Sylar, caught a strangled scream as someone was impaled multiple times with long, jagged shards of glass. There were also the shouts of shock and horror from the police officers that had witnessed it all.

One of them shouted something -- he didn't know what. They had not been in Japan long enough to pick up on the language, even with their phenomenal memories.

But the meaning became clear seconds later, as he fell past the shattered window and saw all the faces looking down at him.

He smiled.

The members of the Yokohama Police Department could only look on in amazement as a man with dark hair and an amused expression gazed at them, as he gracefully fell and disappeared, right before their eyes.

"I'm going to kill you," Sylar said flatly.

This threat was somewhat flattened by the fact that he had his face buried in Peter's neck, and was hugging him enthusiastically.

"I love you too," Peter replied giddily. He was finally beginning to come down off his adrenaline high, and it was leaving him terribly weak. "Oh -- they're not too happy, are they?" He looked at the media circus that had developed in front of the Landmark Tower.

"'Course they're not happy," Sylar replied. "You've just lost them a chance to see the cops beaten up by a gang of amateur terrorists."

"I helped people," Peter said happily, his acts finally sinking in. The knowledge of them gave him a warm glow deep in his chest that helped combat his oncoming fatigue. "I helped them! They're alive!"

"And nearly got yourself killed in the process," the watchmaker grumbled, fingering a bloody hole in Peter's jacket. "And what if someone saw you? I know you jumped off the roof in the end -- that was at seventy stories up!"

"I can fly," the younger man reminded him. "And turn invisible. Some cops saw my face, but I don't think they'll recognize me."

"You'd better be right."

"Anyway," Peter said, trying to smooth over the sticky moment. "We should be getting back, our luggage --"

He yelped suddenly as Sylar picked him up. "I can walk, thank you!"

"You scare me half to death, and expect me to let you _walk _all the way to the bus stop?"


	2. New Times

**Heroes15 Challenge: Table 2/Drabble 03: Agony  
**

* * *

For once, it is not Sylar doing the kissing. Rather, he is the one who is being pressed against the ground, with someone on top of him who is being quite inventive about squirming and swapping spit. This doesn't really help his agony; he rather suspects that he has broken several ribs.

Being the submissive one is a unique position for Sylar.

It had all started out rather simply; being dug out of the rubble by Peter, being yelled out by Peter, having to deal with the terrible possibility that the former nurse might actually icry/i --

Being snogged by Peter certainly came into the equation somewhere, but he would have thought that it would happen after they got back to their hotel in Cairo. Certainly not at the site where one of the Great Pyramids had been demolished.

But it had been fun when Peter climbed into his lap.

And now that he thinks about it, it's actually kind of nice, being on the bottom.

Peter finally comes up for air, and stops kissing him.

Damn.

"Idiot," he says breathlessly.

"There's a rock under my head," Sylar replies.

Perhaps he also has a concussion.


	3. To Deep And Deeper Blue

**Heroes15 Challenge: Table 2/Drabble 07: Broken  
**

* * *

The idea of being broken had never occurred to Sylar. It was other people that were broken, not him. _He_ was the one that fixed them, the only who could. The only one capable.

Peter is someone who is broken. He is broken by loss, and betrayal, and pain. He is a man who has had his brother taken away from him; he is a like a wall clock that has been thrown to the ground and stomped on.

It is after the funeral; and Sylar is still angry.

"You said that to her?" Peter asks, incredulous, forced to hold onto the back of a chair for support.

"Yes," Sylar replies, curious about his indignation. "She was acting like her pain was the only one that mattered. She wasn't thinking of you. That makes me sick."

Peter turns away. "Winning that kind of contest is what's sick," he says bitterly. "That doesn't make me happy."


	4. Color Me Red

**Heroes15 Challenge: Table 2/Drabble 13: Forbidden  
**

* * *

The pomegranate fit Sylar's hand neatly; the weight was heavy and reassuring in his palm. He liked that, just as he liked the correctness of the hotel room chair supporting him, just as he liked the symmetric patterns engraved on the glass bowl that sat in front of him.

Carefully, he traced a finger down the blushing skin. It split slowly, red juices bleeding outwards.

That most certainly reminded him of something, he thought. He looked over at the bed. Peter was still asleep, sheets and comforter covering him.

He turned his attention back to the fruit. Carefully, he lay the cut pomegranate in the bowl. Slowly, the fruit fell open, revealing the hundreds -- thousands? -- of seeds within.

Pomegranates, the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, which had been denied to the First Man and First Woman. But they had broken the law, and had gained knowledge of death and desire.

_Desire._ Oh, yes.

Sylar looked at the bed again. He licked his lips and glanced back at the bowl. He lifted a seed from inside the fragile shell, and settled it in his hand. It stained his palm scarlet. That amused him.

He popped it into his mouth; sweetness exploded as he bit down, making him shudder.

Maybe Peter would like some.

He stood, forbidden seeds of forbidden fruits spilling in the glass bowl. He picked it up and carried it to the side of the bed. To use on Peter, to cast a spell, to lay a curse.

Persephone, daughter of Demeter had eaten the seeds in the Underworld, in the garden of Hades. And now, she had to travel below the earth, for she had partaken in a repast that was not of her world. That was the reason for winter.

Sylar put the bowl down on the nightstand. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed and touched Peter's bare shoulder.

The man shifted, and turned on his back. He smiled when he saw Sylar's face. "Hello," he said sleepily.

"Hello," the former watchmaker replied solemnly. He leaned down. Peter's arms slipped around his neck.

"I brought breakfast," Sylar murmured before they started kissing.


	5. Welcome, Sin

**Heroes15 Challenge: Table 2/Drabble 14: Rage  
**

* * *

"Stay away from him."

Sylar carefully reached up and removed Nathan's hand from his shoulder. "No."

"Goddamn you," Nathan said softly. "Don't make this any harder. Stay away from my brother."

"And why should I do that? He seems happy, I think. If I was going to kill him, I would have done it days ago -- preferably when he was sleeping." He felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. "And I've seen him sleep plenty of times."

Nathan's gaze was made of smoldering embers in braziers of sphalerite. Strange, how out of place he looked in the dark hall, waiting for his flesh and blood to emerge from the apartment. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from Peter?"

Now, Sylar could feel himself getting angry. "Are you sure you're not asking how much I know about him? Trying to find out how I could damage your icampaign/i?" He spat out the words, as if they were filth in his mouth. "Is that how family is treated these days? You don't see Peter, you just an extension -- of yourself, of your father --"

"Don't talk about my father," Nathan hissed.

"Why shouldn't I? Peter talks about him all the time -- he talks about his father, and his mother, and iyou/i. Always about how you're always there for him, how you haven't let him down."

"Shut up!"

"But I know him, Nathan. I know him better than you ever could." Sylar continued, relentless. "I know that he hates sleeping with just a sheet, because he gets cold too easily. I know that he has a birthmark on his left hip, because he tore those nice jeans off as soon as we got to the hotel room -- the one we didn't come out of for a week. I know he loves peanut butter even though he's allergic to it. Anything else you'd like me to share?"

"Stop it," Nathan hissed. "Shut up, you son of a bitch, you imurderer/i. You don't have the right --"

"To what? To breathe, to walk, to talk, to fuck your brother to an inch of his life?"

"Yes! You don't have the right -- to any of that! Get out, leave! Jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, shoot yourself, go to Israel and die in a bomb! I don't care what you do: just stay away from Peter!"

The apartment door opened.

"I think that's up to me," Peter said quietly.

Nathan started, but Sylar wasn't surprised. He looked at the duffle bag at Peter's feet. "Ready to go, then."

"Yes."

"You shouldn't go with this maniac," Nathan snarled.

"I made a promise."

"Are you going to be a killer too?" The elder brother demanded.

"No."

"Then..." He trailed off, incomprehension filling his eyes.

"I'll stay in touch," Peter said gently. He gave his sibling a hug, picked up his duffle bag, and followed Sylar out of the building.


	6. For Weary Heads and Weepy Eyes

**Heroes15 Challenge: Table 2/Drabble 08:Pain**

* * *

"_He's still...he's still out there. Isn't he."_

Cool sheets under his hands. The pain in his chest, it's not...

"_Isn't he?"_

It's...

"_Isn't he, Peter?"_

The blanket is heavy on his back, but the weight is comforting. The pillow is soft under his face -- softer than what he's used to. The material feels good against his cheek.

"_You know where he is, don't you, Peter?"_

"_...Why would I know that?"_

And the pain in his chest, his closest companion for weeks, isn't... It's not...

"_You _do_ know where he is."_

Gone. The pain is gone, and he feels light headed, and he must have been drugged, but it's hard to be worried about that when he is laying in soft sheets and warm blankets, with the scent of cinnamon filling him.

There's something familiar about this, something that nags at the back of his mind. A memory of something warm, and good, and shining.

_A breath, a smile, a warm arm around his waist -- _

_Peter._

The slamming door is loud in the _(Peter's)_ apartment startles him, makes him jump. The movement pulls on the wound, and pain bleeds through. Peter's footsteps are soft as he approaches the bed.

Then there is a hand on the back of his neck. And softly, "How do you feel?"

Sylar closes his eyes. "Fine," he whispers, as the pain goes back again.


End file.
